


Whiskey in Babylon

by La_Llorona



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Americana, Anal Sex, Angel True Forms, Apocalypse, BAMF Castiel, Bisexual Dean, Blood Drinking, Bottom Dean, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Sex, Dead Mary Winchester, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Demon Blood Addiction, Drinking, F/M, Four Horsemen, Gods, Heaven & Hell, Heavy Angst, Lovecraftian, M/M, Monsters, Mythology References, Non-Consensual, Openly Bisexual Dean, Pagan Gods, Plotty, Pre-Series, Protective Castiel, Raised Apart, Rape/Non-con Elements, Road Trips, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Sexual Content, Sexual Violence, Slow Build, Top Dean, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vessel Dean, Vessel Sam, Violence, Young Dean, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:58:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Llorona/pseuds/La_Llorona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I could tell you about the greatest battles Heaven and Hell ever fought. I was present for most of them, at least. But instead, somehow, I find myself telling you about the first time Dean Winchester called me 'Cas,' when he was only four years old." Of course, it was odd to have a nickname after millions of years. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sam and Dean Winchester were raised apart--one by demons on Earth, the other by angels in Heaven--for the specific purpose of becoming the perfect vessels for the Devil and an archangel. But as the Apocalypse nears, Dean will have to solve a sphinx's riddle, find God, and stop falling in love with his guardian angel. Sam will have to become stronger, get Lilith on his side, and find the highway to Hell. </p>
<p>Naturally, it turns into a twisted road trip with classic rock, sex, violence, pagan gods and monsters straight from Lovecraft crowding every truck stop. (Multi-chapter fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The History Books Forgot About Us: Castiel

**Castiel**

 

_The only thing you need to know about him is that he’s an archangel’s vessel. But out of necessity, I’ll tell you more. I’ll start with something simple—something you could understand._

_The first time he called me “Cas,” he was four years old. It was—unorthodox to say the least. But I continue to let him do it._

“Cas!”

_I would describe the Arabic décor—the exotic carpets, curtains, things that humans crave—but it’s pointless. All that matters is this: we were in a restaurant of the Middle Eastern variety, and Dean was calling for me._

Castiel got off the dark-wooded floor. A tasseled, patterned rug was bunched beside him _. I remember that specifically._ There were pillows as well, but they were too—comfortable to throw. They wouldn’t make for good weapons against an ancient creature like the sphinx.

It appeared to be a human, just like Castiel often does—a young woman, not much older than Dean, but with dark skin and the features of an Egyptian royal. She wore modern clothes: loose-fitting pants, loose-fitting shirt, strapped high heels.

It was apparent that Dean’s angel blade was out of reach, so Cas drew his own from his trench coat and came toward them. Dean was struggling against the sphinx, despite his unusual strength. This creature was powerful. It was holding him hostage from behind, both hands gripping his arms. Its lion-like claws were digging into his flesh, and Cas knew he’d seen enough.

“Step away from him,” Castiel said and let his vessel’s eyes burn like blue fire to give the sphinx an idea of what his true form was.

But the sphinx only dug its claws deeper into Dean’s arms.

“Son of a bitch…” he heard his friend gasp out through clenched teeth and clenched eyes.

“He guessed wrong, so I make a meal out of him. Those are the rules, Angel Face.”

Cas was getting intensely frustrated with the sphinx’s personality.

Two strides brought him close enough to yank her head back by her dark hair and press the blade to her neck. “Let him go—now.”

The sphinx laughed, but Cas thought it was only her way of showing off rows of curved, milk-white teeth. They looked more like miniature claws themselves.

Driving his blade into the small of her back was an effective way of getting her to “shut her goddamned mouth,” as Dean would say.

Speaking of Dean, Cas gained him enough time to skid across the floor and come back with his own blade, which fit nicely inside the creature’s mouth.

They had her cornered in the best way possible.

The sphinx’s breath was short. Cas could feel it pounding through her body, the way his front was pressed against her back. It was reminiscent of the way she’d held Dean just a moment before. Cas thought that was just.

Dean’s hand was perfectly still, fingers wrapped around the blade’s handle. His lips curled into a smirk. “Till you open that door? You’re our bitch, bitch.”

 

 

 

 


	2. The History Books Forgot About Us: Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...Mary and John search for their missing son Dean in 1983...

**Mary**

October 25, 1983

Blue Earth, Minnesota

The cabin’s so cold and dark, though she’s used to those conditions. Tired of them, but used to them. It’d even be a nice place if it was spruced up a little. Mary likes the slanted ceiling and its beams. She likes the little window with the checkered curtains. She like the brick wall that closes in the fireplace. But the fireplace’s screen is busted, and the windowpane’s jammed. There’s a talking fish on the wall, which she hates. It looks dead, and it can’t talk anymore at all. There are about a hundred clocks lined up on a shelf, and they all go off at the same exact time of day. Mary and John don’t know how to make them stop. They’ve been here four days still don’t know how to make them stop.

Most of their time’s spent with this guy, though. Guy—no, he’s not a guy. He’s a demon. He’s literally a demon. Not something she sees every day, even with the way she grew up.

Mary’s sitting on the brown, suede armchair, ‘cause John told her to. “Relax,” he said. “Think about the baby.” It’s hard not to think about the baby. The baby’s giving her all kinds of pain. All kinds of cravings too and there’s no real grocery store around, so they have to work with what’s left in the dusty cabinets.

The demon’s tied to a chair with some frayed rope. The chair creaks every time he shifts a little. His whole face looks like it’s cracking after what John’s done to him. There are reddish black, crusty blood trails lining the rips and crevices.

Some fresh blood’s pouring out of his mouth the second John stabs him in the gut again. Mary feels a little sick watching it stain the guy’s teeth, no matter how many times she’s done that kind of thing herself. Maybe it’s the baby making her feel more prone to hurling. That or she just gets more and more tired of this job by the day.

Maybe it’s not the blood at all. Maybe it’s watching John pull the strings.

“You’ve gotta tell me. It’s been four days and counting. I _need_ information. And I know you have it.” His voice doesn’t sound the same to Mary. It sounds thick and hollow all at once.

She’s almost forgotten what the demon’s face used to look like. He had bushy eyebrows. They’re singed off now. He had a mountain man beard to match, all ginger, but there are only sticky chunks of it left. His thick curls are matted down now. He has a plaid shirt, but it’s splattered with his own blood.

Mary rubs her bulge. If she keeps her palm in one spot long enough, she can feel the baby kick. When she had Dean in her stomach, she played this one song for him over and over again…

She doesn’t have a radio—can’t play anything for this one.

The demon’s smile distracts her. It’s a slow, filthy kind of smile. “I told you,” he rasps out. “You’ve got the wrong hillbilly.” He chokes on his own laughter, coughs up a couple spurts of blood.

“I don’t think I do,” John says, calm, and rams the knife into the demon’s collarbone. Mary looks away this time, but not in a dramatic-movie-way. She tries to do it casually. Tries to keep her face blank. She tries to keep Deanna’s song thrumming through my mind.

The demon chokes again. Its laugh or scream or whatever it is sounds like a dog’s bark this time. She moves her hand in a slow circle on the bulge.

“Where is she?” John demands. Everything he says sounds like a demand these days. It makes me sad.

The demon’s teeth are red and only red. His whole face scrunches up when he smiles. The skin rips more and the lumps of blood pop out. “I. Don’t. Know.”

The knife’s jammed deep into his leg.

The beams in the ceiling are still nice.

_Hey, Jude, don’t make it bad_

_Take a sad song, and make it better…_

Now his scream sounds like a dog’s howl. She can’t tell if he’s having fun or not, but he won’t say a thing. We’ve been here four days already. She hates demons just as much as the next person but—

“Tell me what you did to her!”

A bone snaps. Mary recognizes the sound from the night she killed a shifter with Dad. The thing was twisted on the leafy ground, and they snapped its legs for good measure.

She recognizes the sound from Thanksgiving too. She shared a wishbone with Mom.

John’s carving meat off the demon’s thigh.

_Remember to let her into your heart_

_Then you can start to make it better…_

The night Dean was taken from them—it was so normal. She woke up to her crying. He was in the nursery. Mary rolled over to tell John to handle it, but he wasn’t there. She figured he was watching TV in the living room. They had a small one. It got a few channels.

So she shuffled to the nursery herself.

The hall light was flickering, and she stopped for just a second. Dean already stopped crying. The roses on their wallpaper looked like they were moving, flowing together. She was so tired that night. She tapped the light, but it kept twitching.

Oh well, Mary thought, and walked the last steps to the nursery. The door was already open. She couldn’t remember leaving it like that, but her brain was foggy.

“Dean?” He already stopped crying. Suddenly she wondered how in the world he did that.

_Hey Jude, don’t be afraid_

_You were made to go out and get her…_

The demon’s scream almost burst her eardrums this time. “John…” Her voice sounds shakier than she wants it to.

The knife hits the floor with a thud, and Mary finally relaxes a little bit.

“Go on, Johnny—take care of your bitch.”

She ignores the title. It doesn’t really matter to her what reputation she has with demons. It only matters that John’s hand’s on her shoulder, and the hand’s not completely worn out from all this.

“What’s the matter? Mary. Talk to me.”

“Kitchen—now…”

She lets him lead her there. The floorboards feel cold on her bare feet. It’s welcome. Her soles have felt so itchy and blubbery and hot these last few weeks. The lighting’s dim in here. It’s illuminated by a single lamp set on the floor. The kitchen itself is pretty old-fashioned. It’s all woodwork like the rest of the house, and there’s no microwave. There’s just a clunky stove and some pots and pans lying out.

“Sit down.” He guides her to a chair. It creaks when she sits on it too. “Need some water?” He’s fussing again. It’s cute. Mary likes him this way. She watches him closely as he goes to the sink and forces a thin stream out of the rusty old thing and into a mug. “Need a snack?”

“’M fine,” She tells him, but she takes the water ‘cause she’s more thirsty than she realized.

Mary glances toward the living room when the demon shouts, “I could use a snack, Johnny!”

“Ignore him,” John says softly, tilting her face back to his.

“It’s getting kind of hard.” She looks down at the puddle of water in the cup. For a second, she pictures it as a lake that she and John are floating down in a boat. Mary has the new baby cradled in my arms and little Dean’s on John’s shoulders being a lookout. “John…we have a new kid on the way.”

John nods like his life depends on it. “I know we do. I know.”

“So we can’t keep doing this.”

His face already looked drained before it fell into that frown. “We can’t stop till we _find_ her, Mary.” His hand encircles her wrist, even though she really wants to bring the cup to her lips and drink. “We’ve gotta get our boy back. You know that.”

“I’ve known that for four _years_. But now we’ve got—“

“So you wanna forget Dean? Like he never existed?”

“No. I don’t want this one to die too.”

He softens a little at that, like she knew he would. He’s still her John deep down. Some things never change.

“He won’t. I won’t let anything happen to him or to you or to us.”

“You can’t make any promises in a life like this. That’s why I wanted to get out of it. I was finally out…”

“And you’ll _be_ out. I swear. But first thing’s first.”

She wants to say, “What if we never find her?” But she can’t. Not only would it cut deep for him, it would cut deep for her. She can’t say those things out loud, even if she’s thinking them in her head. It would make the possibility too real.

The demon’s yelling again. “Could I get a pillow, Johnny? It’s time for snoozin’!”

“You’ll have to forget about that,” John answers him. Why does he think he has to answer him?

“Awww…” The demon sounds like a boy who was told he couldn’t get a tricycle for Christmas.

John sighs. “It’s gonna be a long night. I’ll help you to the bedroom.”

Mary knows better than to wait up for him. He won’t be with her till the early hours.

So she sits on the edge of the bed and tries to run a brush through her hair. It’s in knots and tangles. Mary puts the stupid brush down and rests a hand on her stomach, feeling for a kick, hum a little, hearing the words in her head.

_Anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain_

_Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders_

_For well you know that it’s a fool who plays it cool_

_By making his world a little colder_

She can still hear the hacking. She’ll use it like a lullaby. She lays down to sleep after saying a small, small prayer.

 Her eyes drift shut for five seconds before she hears a rush of air and John screaming, “He’s gone! Damn it, he’s gone…”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. The History Books Forgot About Us: Jesse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...A demon ascends to Hell...

**Jesse**

October 25, 1983

In Hell

_I found John Winchester and his bitch._

Did ya now?

_Yeah. I found ‘em in an old shack out in Blue Earth, Minnesota._

Blue Earth—weird name…

_Eh. About 70% of the earth is—y’know—water._

I know what the earth is like, Sonny Boy.

_‘Course you do. ‘Course…_

I’ve been on and around it longer than you. That’s for damn sure.

_I don’t doubt it, sir. Don’t doubt it._

What happened to your vessel, huh?

_It keeled over._

Ya couldn’t have left sooner? I mean, four days. Whew.

_Messing with him was the most fun I’ve had in two hundred years, sir._

If that’s the kinda thing you get off on, Sonny.

_Well, y’know…_

Anyway—how’s the little brat?

_Seems real close to poppin,’ sir._

Can you be more specific?

_I’d give it a week, sir._

Ooo, excellent…

_So, is my job done or what?_

You’ve been good, kiddo. But we still need to take him off their hands, don’t we? I can trust you with that, can’t I?

_I don’t doubt it._

You’re top-notch with possessions, aren’t you?

_Thanks, sir._

So—hop to it.


	4. The History Books Forgot About Us: Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...A demon returns from Hell...

**Mary**

October 31, 1983

Blue Earth, Minnesota

It’s not the kind of church she’s used to. She’s used to pasty white walls, simple pews, and a gold cross here and there. Pastor Jim’s church is almost gothic. There are strong, wide stones dancing up the walls, the kind you’d see in a fairytale castle. The ceiling’s high. There are tall, iron candelabras guarding the beautifully polished altar, and a silver chalice rests there. A banner with a medieval cross stitched onto it is hung nearby.

Mary’s sitting in one of the pews, legs up on another. It’s not that comfortable, but this place is supposed to be a sanctuary. She’s supposed to feel a sense of peace and tranquility.

All she can really feel is the ache in my muscles.

“It’ll all be over soon, Mary.” Pastor Jim’s voice takes on an echo. He’s standing down the aisle, hands clasped behind his back.

She laughs a little, but it’s strained. “Wish it was over now. But if I got through one pregnancy, I can get through another, right?”

“I don’t doubt it.”

She shifts on the pew. The sweat’s coming on. She knows it’ll only be a few days ‘till the baby comes. They’re on the ninth month already. She’s pretty sure of it. Of course, Mary hasn’t been able to keep a calendar with her, but she’s _pretty_ sure of it.

“Mary?”

She wants to scream at him to get her a damned towel, but instead she just says, “Yeah?” She sucks it up and switches positions.

“What will you name him?”

Spots are clouding my vision right now, clusters of colorful dabs. They’re making the church look trippy. And there’s something strange about the lilt in Pastor Jim’s voice.

“What’ll I name him…? I was thinking—maybe Michael?”

She watches his lip twitch. “Ironic.”

“What?”

“I said it’s ironic, Mary.” His dress shoes echo in the room too, just like his voice. “Everyone wants to name their little boys Michael. No one ever wants to name them Lucifer.”

There’s something wrong. There’s a danger flare in her head. “It sounds like a death wish to me.”

His shoes stop echoing, because he’s stopped walking. He stands so close to her pew she can smell a faint scent of lemon and practically hear his breaths. “But what if it’s—accurate?”

There’s a pounding in her head. Everything’s sore, but she’s able to stand, to rip a gun from the denim jacket that she threw over her dress this morning. “Stay back.” Mary aims it at his head.

He puts his hands up in something like surrender, but she knows it’s not even close to that. “Why so aggressive?”

“’Cause I’m a lady with a baby, that’s why. Now who are you?” She knows he’s not Pastor Jim. She knows it.

And then it’s as if ink’s flooded his eyes. “Miss me?”

Mary tightens her hold on the gun. “You’re the same demon.”

“That I am.”

He takes one step forward and she shoots a bullet near his feet.

“Nuh-uh—you hit me, you hit Pastor Jimmy. Wouldn’t want that…”

No, she doesn’t want that. But she has no idea what this _thing_ wants. “What do you want?!” Mary wishes she sounded calmer. She can’t right now. She doesn’t know how.

“I want that little love muffin you’ve got riding in the womb.”

She’s walking backwards now, and she rams her side into another pew by accident. “Not a chance.”

“Didn’t say I was giving out choices, Mary…”

The bullet takes a split second to bury itself in his shoulder. “Neither am I.”

He’s on his knees, growling like a dog, always sounding like a dog, and she’s making a break for that towering door. It seems to get farther and farther away with each step she takes, even though she knows she’s got to be getting closer.

Mary pauses for one moment, just to look back, just to make sure he’s still on the floor, and there are two rough hands around my neck like a noose.

“All hail the king, cunt…”

There’s one spike of pain, and those spots cloud my vision, losing all their color.

November 1, 1983

The bars were probably silver before they were rusted into a sickly bronze. She can see scuffed-up boots beyond them—two different pairs.

She’s only just realized that she’s stretched out with her hands tied behind her back.

Mary tries to say something, but her throat’s so dry that she can’t. Dizziness blows through her. Tornado through Kansas…I wanna go home…

“Go fish.”

She doesn’t know that voice. It’s tinny and thin.

There’s the smooth slide of playing cards. Dad taught her to play poker when she was seven. She can recognize all the slightest noises the deck knows how to make.

“Hey, she’s up.” Another voice mumbles that. It’s gruffer, grittier.

“You’re gonna die, girly!” the tinny voice shrieks at me. “After you let that little ‘un out, you’re a goner.”

“Sam…” Her voice’s raspier than she could have imagined.

“What was that?” the gruff one’s saying.

“Sam!” The name cracks through her lips. “His name’s Samuel…”

_Samuel and Dean—after my dad and mom._

“Samuel.” It’s a clearer voice that repeats it back to her. Actually, this voice is clear as a bell. She can’t see the shoes that go with it. She can’t see anything, because her eyes are closed again.

She hears the scratching of a pen against paper. “Samuel…” he murmurs again.

“Sam.” She thinks it’s her whisper. She  think it’s coming from her—Mary Winchester.

And she can see them in a boat, on a lake. John’s leaning there, looking down into the water, handsome and kind as ever, happier than he’s been in years. Sam’s tall with dark hair like his dad and a smile like the sun, and Dean’s arm is around his shoulders. Green eyes like Mary’s.


	5. The History Books Forgot About Us: Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...Dean and Cas find a lead on God...

  **Dean**

“ _It ain’t me! It ain’t me! I ain’t no senator’s son!_ C’mon, sing it, Cleopatra.”

But the sphinx wasn’t taking any of his shit. Figures she’d be boring on top of being a cunt. AC/DC kept singing with Dean, reliable as ever, just like that open road. With the window rolled down, he could feel the wind beating his face and neck. It had a rhythm of its own. The sun was hot and bothered that day, burning up the asphalt, making it glow a little, making the air shiver a little.

Seemed like they were the only people driving there, but he knew it wouldn’t last. They’d hit the highway soon enough.

Maybe every other car in the world was avoiding them because they were this big damn truck. It was a moving truck, actually, one he “borrowed” for a good long time. Sometimes he loitered around car dealerships, perusing all the nice, sleek, classic beauties. But that truck was useful as hell. He and Cas, they stored all their pointy objects in there. Spare rifles and shotguns too. The good citizens of these United States remained none the wiser.

Cas was in the back, surrounded by a crap-load of cardboard boxes with things like FRAGILE scrawled on ‘em. Dean knew exactly which ones held the knives, which held the angel blades, exactly where everything was. But, yeah, Cas was there, crouching beside their lovely Egyptian. They got her bound in two different ways.

1: With ropes. Not hard to figure that out.

2: With this ancient Enochian spell. Cas’s the Enochian guru, Dean swears it.

The spell made it pretty impossible for her to get away—too bad, so sad. They branded a complex symbol onto the palm of her hand. It served as the doggie leash.

Cas and the sphinx were whispering it up back there, so Dean gave up listening in miles ago. Figured he’d just enjoy his music, enjoy the drive, try to annoy them every once in a while.

The truck wobbled a lot, but Cas never tripped when he walked from the back to the front or the front to the back. Dean wasn’t shocked when the partitioning door slid open and Cas poked his head into the little sanctuary.

“What’s the word, Cas?”

“Nothing. She isn’t saying much. And I suspect she’s leading us in circles.”

“How can you tell?”

“I just can. She’s lying.”

Well, so much for enjoying the ride. Dean sighed and shut off the music. “Take the wheel. I’ll interrogate Evil Queen of the Nile.”

“But—“

“No other cars around, buddy. Just keep driving straight.”

Cas was glaring him down, but Dean was already shifting out of the seat, which meant—tough luck—he had to take over. Dean smacked his ass while they switched, but it just confused the hell out of him.

“Hey, Sphinxy—let’s talk.” Dean dragged the door closed and held the wall, took it one step at a time. Cas was swerving all over the goddamned road, like he was playing a video game where the floating gems were scattered in some random-ass order that took you over mountains, valleys and zigzagging illegally in the lanes. “Just take a deep breath, man!”

He said nothing, but Dean knew he’d be cussing him out if he actually cussed much.

Dean kept heading toward the sphinx. Her face split into this creepy smile. Really, it’d be sexy if it wasn’t so evil.

“How ‘bout we act like adults here and spill our guts.” He squatted in front of her, gripping onto a box to keep my balance. He blamed Cas’s lame driving for that.

She didn’t say anything, just kept staring at him with that Cheshire cat grin.

“Ok…I’ll go first,” Dean said. “When I was ten? I had a crush on Patrick Swayze—yep.”

She actually blinked. It was a miracle that only something completely humiliating could’ve choked up. It wasn’t even true. Dean had no idea who Swayze was when he was ten, since there wasn’t much TV beyond the pearly gates.

“Your turn,” he coaxed her. “And if you could…I dunno…spill somethin’ about God’s favorite vacation spots, that’d be awesome.” He gave her a thumbs-up for encouragement. Thumbs-ups always encouraged him, anyway.

The sphinx chuckled a little. “You’re lucky you’ve got looks.”

“Well, pretty soon I’m gonna have to get ugly, princess.” Dean slid a knife cleanly from his leather jacket. “And you don’t wanna see me ugly.”

“Killing me will only defeat your purpose…” Her voice was pretty much shredded silk: smooth, but you could feel the frayed edges and loose threads.

“Then give me another riddle.”

“No can do.” The goddamned smile came back. “One riddle per person…”

“Then let Cas play!”

“He’s an angel. Only humans can answer _my_ questions.”

Dean put the knife to her throat, drawing one bead of red blood. “Give me another riddle. I won’t lose this time.

 

‘Cause he sure as hell lost last time.

He was at the kinda bar that had a bull head on the wall and a Coca Cola sign right under it. The air was thick, all smoke and sweat and it felt like everything in the room was bending backwards toward that one hanging light, as if to say “We’re all flies in the end. Swat me after I’ve gotten my fix, baby.”

The pool table was the place to be, but only after he’d gotten himself a drink, hit on a couple waitresses. Nice ass on the brunette one, nice tits on the red-head. Man, does he love red-heads.

There wasn’t anybody hot playing pool, just a couple gruff sons of bitches with fucked up tattoos and worn-out cowboy hats.

He wiped them all out in a few, clean shots. The night was going his way.

A tall guy with nice stubble and chalky gray eyes decided to play Dean. Finally, a cut one, but he’d still kick his tight ass.  

Dean flirted with him a little, and Dean thought it threw the poor sucker off his game. It’s a real shame that the pretty ones are always so fucking dumb. Works in his favor, though. Dean beat him pretty damn quick.

“Pay up, Prince Charming.”

And he did. “Too bad…I was gonna use that money to buy you a drink.”

“Already had one, slick.” Dean counted up his cash. “But I’ll give you a couple back so you can buy us a room.”

A firm hand clasped his shoulder, making him spin around in a second.

“Damn it, Cas—don’t _do_ that.”

“I apologize. But we need to go.”

The guy behind me snorted. Dean knew he wasn’t getting laid now and kind of felt like murdering Cas. Seriously, what the hell? But all he could do was stare at him and that trench coat he never took off. Dean’s holy tax accountant guardian angel, who apparently didn’t understand his needs.

He could look seriously scary when he wanted to, so Dean let him lead him away from Pretty Boy, who muttered something like “Bye?”

When we got to the door, Dean leaned on it and folded his arms over his chest. “You totally cock-blocked me back there.”

He tilted his head in that familiar way. “You’re not supposed to be fornicating.”

I spread my hands, frustrated as hell. “I’ve gotta get it out of my system before I’m possessed by a tight-ass.”

“I’ve found someone who knows where God is.”

That was a shocker. And not in a sarcastic way. That was a real shocker. For all the hundred whack-jobs that find God on their tortilla bread or potato chips, there’s a slim-to-none chance of running into somebody who’s actually seen Cas’s crouching tiger, hidden dragon type dad.

This was big.

“You mean…” Dean started. Some bluesy, forlorn country song was swimming in the background but everything sounded muffled over there. Everything was happening between him and Cas in that minute, nowhere else. “You mean _God—_ the God who can give me my cosmic bubble bath?”

“Yes. I mean my Father.”

So, they headed to an Arabic restaurant.

Sadly, it wasn’t for a celebration. They were all business, and the business itself wasn’t even open.

They had to go to Florida, of all places. It was kinda nice though, not as stuck-up as it could’ve been. Dean thought there’d be palm trees on every street, like an extended Los Angeles, but untrue. The roads were wide and dotted with telephone poles, ribbed with phone lines, just like any of the backwoods places he liked to go.

There was a McDonald’s, but Cas wouldn’t let him stop to grab something.

Sooner or later, they got to an area that was a little less Eddie Albert and a little more Eva Gabor. There were nice restaurants and tourist shops. Dean’s big, hulking moving van looked out of place cruisin’ around, like Godzilla thinking he could blend in at some carnival where the Ferris wheel only reaches his freakish shoulder.

“I bet parking’s gonna be lots of fun,” Dean said, even though that kind of joke’s completely lost on Castiel.

He was just sitting rod-straight in the passenger seat

The moon was out in full force that night, so even if all the streetlamps died, Dean would have spotted the restaurant just fine. It was situated between two other buildings that looked exactly like it, apart from having different signs and different flags. Dean guessed that’s how it’d feel to have to have a twin—uncomfortable thought. He liked to believe his face was too pretty to replicate.

“Here’s the drop-off, Cas.”

“I can see that.”

Dean grumbled to himself about the angel’s prissy attitude before cracking the door open. They crossed the street and ignored the CLOSED sign. Yeah, no shit you’re CLOSED. They came after hours for a reason.

One of the nice things about Florida: it was pretty warm. All Dean had to do was stuff his hands in his pockets and he was toasty. Cas was taking his time with the lock, as if picking it was some kinda medical operation.

“Anytime now…” Dean was bored out of his mind. Plus, adrenaline was kicking in. He wanted to smoke some bastards, and Cas was holding it up.

Cas gave him one of his patented glares that said “I’m an angel of the fucking Lord, bitch,” so Dean shut up and just rolled his eyes for dignity’s sake.

But even Castiel got fed up with the door and opened it the civilized way: with a kick.

“Attaboy, Cas.”

“…After you.”

Dean swore it was like walking into _Aladdin._ There were patterned rugs heaped on the floor, and yeah, probably none of them were magical flying carpets, but it was still pretty awesome. There were see-through drapes hanging from overhead beams, swooping down like exotic hammocks. The walls were painted gold, and the windows were tall with nice curtains. Colorful pillows sat around low, polished tables. There were a couple archways, a couple vases. He wouldn’t mind going there for some grub.

But something was bothering him. All the lights were on. As if someone was expecting them…

“Cas—“

“You’re finally here.” She waltzed through one of the arches like she owned the place. And she probably did.

Just to add to it, she was a babe. Her hair was glossy, black, and her eyebrows were perfectly curved lines. You could get lost in eyes like hers, and damn it if he didn’t want that mouth around his dick.

Cas squinted. “You were expecting us?”

“I always know what to expect, Castiel.”

Dean was kinda mad that she knew his name. It made me feel like they were at a disadvantage, and he hated that feeling.

“So, uh, you don’t look like the pictures.” Nobody else was saying it. After all, Cas told him she was supposed to be a sphinx: body of a lion, wings of a bird, the whole shebang.

She smiled in that creepy way he eventually got used to. “I look like a lot of things. But that’s not even important. What’s important is that you eat.”

Dean liked this chick’s style, but no way was he taking food from somebody who looked like she wanted to eat him herself. “No thanks. Some information would be nice, though.”

Cas took over. “You know the locations of all the most powerful beings in the universe. We need to find one.”

Everything was quiet for a second. Dean wondered if somebody pressed the mute button on the world.

Then she said, “I have exactly what you need,” and sashayed back through that archway like she knew she was hot. And, once again, she probably did.

They followed her into a room that looked exactly like the other one, except it was even bigger and one of the tables was chocked with food. There were platters smothered in carefully arranged lamb, chicken, and beef; pitas topped with hummus, grape leaves, breads, sauces, pastes, and a ton of other stuff Dean couldn’t even name. But he could tell it was all delicious.

“Sit,” the sphinx urged them.

Dean was hesitating a little bit. That food looked awesome, but maybe she was trying to poison them. Then again, why would she? They didn’t do anything to her—at least, not yet.

Cas broke through his thoughts, whispering, “We should accept her offer. Sphinxes become…testy when their hospitality is rejected.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he muttered and headed for the feast with Cas right behind him.

Yeah, the pillows were just as comfy as they looked, and the food was just as goddamned savory. He got that double-urge, wanting to shovel it all down his throat and wanting to make it last till winter. His cheeks probably looked like a squirrel, which made him a little self-conscious when the sphinx folded her pretty limbs down beside him.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

Hell, yeah.

Dean glanced at Cas. He was barely picking at the juicy slabs of beef in front of him, because, y’know, angels don’t have big appetites. His vessel—some Jesus freak named Jimmy Novak—had a thing for burgers, this preference that belched out of Cas every once in a while, but “every once in a while” isn’t too often.

“Gonna talk to us now, sweetheart?” Dean made sure to swallow before speaking, but damn it if he didn’t have sauce dripping down his chin.

That smile of hers, it never faded. “I’m going to ask a question of my own.”

“A question—of course,” Cas said from across the table. His voice doesn’t change much, but Dean knew “displeased angel” when he heard it.

“Okay…” Dean muttered. “Shoot.”

“It’s more like a riddle, actually.”

The food was kicking his ass already. Honestly, he was getting distracted by how stuffed and drowsy he felt.

Cas’s shotgun gaze switched on him. “This should be easy. Allow me to handle it.”

“Angels don’t play my games,” the sphinx warned.

Dean straightened up, shaking off the fatigue. This was all on him. Cas looked wary as hell, but Dean could do this. He was smart. “Just get to it, princess,” he said.

If it was possible, her grin actually widened. “ _My eyes are black. My skin is gold. My paper crown is bent. I have a phantom in my eyes and can’t know what he meant.”_

Sometimes gut feelings are the best kind. Dean’s first thought was “The Devil.” Black eyes had something to do with demons. Gold skin, well, he was an angel before. Paper crown—he had a God complex the size of Texas. But the second half of the riddle tripped him up. Maybe the phantom was who he used to be?

Dean’s eyes turned to Cas. Maybe he could find a hint sketched onto his face. But, nope, he was unreadable as ever. _Thanks, Cas. You’re a real pal._

So, he went with his gut.

“It’s The Devil.” Dean said it loud and proud.

The edges of her mouth seemed to curl up, and she wasn’t beautiful to him anymore. There was something ancient and demonic burning behind her eyes when she said, “Wrong answer.”

That’s how he and Cas were almost her midnight snack.

And there he was, in the back of a moving truck, asking the whore for another riddle.

“The old riddle still stands,” the sphinx said. “I’ll be gracious and give you one more chance to answer it.”

That _was_ pretty gracious. Would he have preferred a new one? Yeah. But beggars can’t be choosers. He still remembered the old riddle. It was like she seared it in his brain somehow. The black eyes, the gold skin, the paper crown, the phantom and whatever the hell it all meant.

What was it?

He had no fucking clue. There was a roadblock in his brain.

“Guess I’ll think on it…”

“Don’t take your time,” the sphinx said. “I doubt ‘thinking’ is what you do best.”

“I can break a few necks. Yours included. So don’t mess with me.”

His point was made, so he stood back up, a little less wobbly, and trudged back to the partition to rescue Cas from the highway careening toward them.

 

 

 


	6. The History Books Forgot About Us: Dr. Wright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...An analysis of the Boy King at six years old...

**Dr. Wright**

November 1, 1989

Somewhere in Scandinavia, they’re banning smoking on the majority of airline flights. That’s why Dr. Wright sits on a creaky chair, with a clipboard and a lab coat, smoking a cigarette.

He always gets a familiar tug in his gut when something important happens somewhere in the world. Tracking progress: it’s what he does.

The progress of the six-year-old half-demon/archangel vessel (currently stationed in a virtually impenetrable iron cage four times his size) is the most immediate concern Dr. Wright has. Possibly the most crucial task he’s ever undertaken.

There’s a guard—Thompson—stationed exactly one foot from the cage, which is exactly one foot from the cabin’s wall. It’s a one-room cabin, with one rug and one table and two chairs. Dr. Wright likes to keep it simple. There’s no use for a kitchen or bedrooms or bathrooms. The boy sleeps in the cage and urinates in an old pickle jar. There’s also screaming coming from the one coat closet beside the door. It sounds frantic and miserable, really.

Dr. Wright flips to a fresh page on his clipboard. He’s set to make a new diagram that no one but him could possibly interpret.

“Lunchtime,” he tells Thompson and poises his ballpoint pen.

Blank-faced as ever, Thompson nods—almost imperceptibly—in agreement, and then goes to the closet to retrieve the boy’s midday meal.

Dr. Wright counts his footsteps.

He counts the whines of the closet door as Thompson yanks a young, hysterical demon out, one who’s wearing a particularly comely vessel but has marred that comeliness by running her make-up with hurried tears and scrunching her face in an unattractive manner.

“Control her, Thompson.”

Thompson agrees again and smashes his hand over her mouth, hard enough to jar her teeth perhaps. He’s all but dragging her to the cage and all but throwing her inside it after unlocking the door one-handed.

The boy looks excited, face flushing. Dr. Wright makes a note of it. Thompson crouches down to hold the thrashing demon still. Her name is Kathleen and her vessel attended a boarding school.

Her mandatory sweater is torn from skin, along with the stiff white blouse. Thompson balls them up and tosses them aside, pinning her down harder, fingers grinding into her goose-bump ridden shoulders.

Her bare breasts twitch and heave. The boy swallows—greedy gesture, make a note—stares.

“Go ahead, Sam.” Dr. Wright makes another note.

Kathleen’s puffy eyes are clenched shut. She’s simply whimpering now. Good.

Sam takes a few more moments. One, two, three four—then Thompson opens the skin (with a sharpened knife, deadly, ridged) above Kathleen’s breast, and Sam loses it. His eyes widen, dilate, when he sees the blood trickle down, catching on her nipple.

Dr. Wright scribbles it down while Sam sucks the nipple, body shuddering. His tongue laps up the blood precisely two seconds later. His mouth finds the open wound five seconds after that and he begins hungrily tearing at it with his teeth.

That’s very good.

The hunched position of his body is slightly savage. The trembling is addicted. The grind of his teeth makes Kathleen nearly scream.

They’ll keep feeding her to the boy throughout the week and see where they are by November seventh.

Progress has been good, Dr. Wright thinks as he pens down Sam’s name at the top of the page. It’ll soon show, he thinks as he takes a drag from his cigarette.

 

 

 


	7. The History Books Forgot About Us: John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...In '89, John keeps searching...

**John**

December 10, 1989

The words on the page are starting to run together again. Typical. He can see inky eyes and dead tree branches locked between the O’s and S’s, stickered to the paper that’s looking more and more like dead human skin. The power’s out at Bobby’s again, so John darts his flashlight along the thick paragraphs, skimming for anything good. Anything helpful.

His eye stings. He has to rub it again, which only makes it sting more. He’s still rubbing when the door whines open and a patchy figure comes in, wearing a baseball cap.

“Still hittin’ the books?” Bobby asks. He’s over by the musty desk in a second, dropping a greasy Wendy’s bag onto it. “It’s been seven hours, son.”

There’s a wince to his voice, like he’s physically sorry for John’s work ethic. _Don’t see what the problem is. I’m getting things done._

“Means I’ve got five more. Then I’ll get some sleep,” John says, turning another page.

Bobby sighs anyway. “Look. I wanna find Mary and the boys just as much as you do. But you’ve gotta ask yourself: is this what she would’ve wanted? For you to turn into some obsessed, drunken loon?”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Not today, at least.”

“And stop talking about her like she’s dead, for fuck’s sake,” John says.

The words on the page are literally pulsing at this point. He needs to put the flashlight down and glare up at the velvety shape in front of him.

“What would you do if you had the chance to get your wife back?” he asks.

Of course, Bobby can’t answer. ‘Cause he’d do the exact same thing. All he can do is shake his head, huff out another sigh, and walk off, mumbling at John to eat something.

Instead, he gets back to the book after letting his eyes rest for half a minute.

Bobby thinks they’re all dead. John knows he does. It’s been six years, so he can’t blame him. But in the end, it doesn’t matter what he thinks. There’s no stopping—not yet.

 


	8. The History Books Forgot About Us: Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...Castiel reflects on his time raising Dean Winchester in Heaven and what led them here...

**Castiel**

_Out of necessity, I’ll tell you even more._

There was a small, inaccurate angel statue in his childhood room—something like a cherub, completely white like marble, with its eyes closed in prayer. He puzzled over it for a second at the most before turning slowly around in his vessel.

It was still new to him. Sometimes, he had to stretch the fingers several times to remind himself how they worked. There was a function in the brain that sent signals to the rest of his body to make it react. Honestly, it felt like a waste of time, compared to the fluid, streamlined way of transporting his celestial form. This took up so much space and energy, but he knew it was necessary in order to interact with his charge.

It was right over there, in a plain, handmade crib. Small and insignificant. Standing over him while shadows of stars and moons floated along the wallpaper, Castiel couldn’t fathom how it could eventually save the world. This bright red, crying thing. But, he didn’t know God’s full plan just yet didn’t need to. He was a good soldier. An order was an order.

So when her mother tried to interfere, there was nothing he could do but touch her forehead to smother her scream. She crumpled at Jimmy’s black shoes. He waited to see if the father heard anything…no. He didn’t.

He put a finger to Dean’s forehead next and watched his eyelids slowly shut.

The water was more like a mirror.

He could see every slow turn of his many luminescent heads, his long, branch-like fingers. The dark pebbles and rocks showed through as well. Then there were the enormous, strong, silvery roots breathing under the water, breaking from its surface to jut up as trees. They went on and on. Endless columns of shimmering trees, a million shifting faces carved into each one. The branches stretched toward the black sky that seemed to never end. Pure, golden eyes were stitched into the velvety darkness, like earthly stars.

Wings beat against the air then stopped.

_Castiel. I sense the Righteous Man’s presence here in Heaven._

_Yes. But he’s only a child right now. Barely even that._

_Humans age quickly,_ he informed me. _He’ll be dying of old age before you notice anything has changed at all._

The barely rippling water lapped against Castiel’s essence, seeping into it, giving him a surge of energy.

_There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask…_ he said.

_Then ask._

_Why is this my duty? I’m a soldier of Heaven. I watch over the earth. I don’t intervene with it._

_Hm. Indeed. The angel of solitude._

A few eyes winked above, and Castiel flickered in silence.

_I wouldn’t say I’m solitary, per se,_ he corrected.

His essence buzzed. It’s something like “chuckling,” in  human terms. _Socially awkward, then?_

_I don’t understand._

_That’s all right,_ he said. _All you need to understand…is that my orders come straight from God. Who are you to question them?_

_No one._

_That’s right._

_I was just—wondering._

_That’s perfectly fine. Wonder a bit more privately._

Time doesn’t exist in Heaven. Well, not in the way it does on earth. So Castiel couldn’t tell you how long they stayed there, feeling the atmosphere move, before communicating again.

_What should I tell him?_

He was no teacher. He didn’t know the first thing about raising a messiah.

But the angel replied, _Everything._ And Castiel should have known. He was in over his head.

_Where should I start?_ His frustration was starting to show. There was too much he had to do and not enough time for any of it.

But the seraph was calm as the water around them when he answered,

_At the beginning._

_So I began with a light._

_That light became a million, shining points until they exploded into galaxies. The first light—it was Heaven: the brightest of them all. Everything was born from it and made for its glory. But in the beginning, it was empty, just a jar without any burning fireflies._

_Believe it or not, even gods get lonely._

_So the Lord created us. The angels. One by one, starting with Lucifer, who was carved from light itself. We inhabited the upper plane, a dimension that’s practically unreachable from your position in the Milky Way. But that plane of existence…all I can really say is, you can feel the magnitude of existence all around you. Humans think of Heaven as a place to go when you die. But it’s actually where you go to live. It still seems endless to me. I’ve never travelled the whole distance myself, but I imagine it’s greater than anything we can comprehend._

_And it was all ours._

_And it seemed good enough. We couldn’t picture anything better. But God always had a better imagination._

_I remember being surprised for the first time when God started building your little solar system. I sat for a long time, watching the sun being stitched together and lit on fire. It’s something I’ll never forget. The moon was sculpted more delicately and gave off an older, wiser appearance. It circled the sun, like it was trying to watch over it and bask in its glory all at once. Then there were other planets, including yours. The one God chose to focus on the most._

_I could go on and on, describing how the mountains unraveled. How the thick, muddy dirt broke open. How the clouds were streaked across the painted skies. But I’m not a poet. Actually, I don’t think a poet could do it justice either._

_The thing that struck me the most about Creation was the fish that crawled out of an ocean all on its own._

_One of my brothers told me not to step on it._

_God has big plans for it, Castiel._

_I think I’m well acquainted with the descendant of that fish._

_Those fish did grow up. They underwent a lot of changes. It was almost humorous to watch evolution flounder around until God paused and decided it was good enough to slow down and let man have his time._

_Adam and Eve were, frankly, idiots._

_We all knew that._

_But no one was going to protest, even when we were told to serve the strange, finite creatures. If it was God’s will, it was ours. At least, that’s how it was meant to be._

_And then there was Lucifer._

_And you know the rest._

_I could tell you about the greatest battles Heaven and Hell ever fought—_

_Instead, somehow, I find myself telling you about the first time Dean Winchester called me “Cas.”_

It was odd to have a nickname, after millions of years. They were in the Green Room that day. A chandelier glittered above them, and the walls were pearly white with golden trim. There was something pure and oddly—fake about it. Maybe because he knew it was only an illusion.

Dean was four years old in earth years, and Castiel came to find he enjoyed the taste of mortal food.

An array of desserts was set in front of him, spanning the long, marble table. Things like white chocolate brownies, sugared funnel cakes; lemon, pumpkin and cinnamon apple pies.

Dean stuck his finger in each one. Testing it. He made too many messes, to Castiel’s constant annoyance. Still, there was something endearing about him.

When Castiel tried to wipe cherry filling from the child’s lip, he giggled and said, “Cas!” before smearing some on Jimmy Novak’s wrinkled coat.

Over the years, she continued calling him that. And occasionally still pelted him with food.

Their angel blades clashed together with a metallic ring.

He spun and ducked Castiel’s lunge. He tried backing the human into a corner, but he threw a side-kick my way, forcing him to step back. Dean got away. Circling around. Castiel faked for his leg, and when Dean moved to shield it, Cas slashed his sword clean through his abdomen.

Dean groaned. He wasn’t actually hurt, only humiliated. These weapons were only for practice. It ghosted past his physical form and came out the other side.

Castiel slid it into his sleeve, and Dean dropped his unceremoniously.

“I was going easy on you,” he muttered. A petulant ten-year-old response.

 “No, I was. And I still won, but you’re getting better,” Castiel said.

For training purposes, he’d expanded the Green Room at least a hundred and fifty feet and made the furniture vanish. He’d converted the pastoral paintings into gilded-framed floor-to-ceiling mirrors that watched their every move from every angle. It was simultaneously helpful and disorienting during battle, which was the whole point.

Since they were done for the day, Castiel flashed the room back to normal. Except he let the paintings of peaceful fields and lambs melt into scenes from the apocalypse. Black. Red. Charred corpses. Michael pounding his foot into Lucifer’s scalded back and holding up his severed head.

“That’s you,” he told Dean, pointing to Michael. “Or, it will be.”

The recent lesson Castiel was told to teach him. It was news to Cas as well. He never knew before that this was the true vessel for his elusive older brother. One of the angels he hadn’t met.

He looked over at the slim, freckled boy and tried to picture something like himself burning inside of that body. It was difficult.

“Doesn’t look like me…” Dean said quietly, sounding numb.

“You’re right.” Castiel pulled out a chair for him and sat down on another one. “That’s Michael. I’ve told you about him. The angel who helped God cast down Lucifer in the first place. Inevitably, the Devil will return. Soon. So, Michael will need to fight him again and win.”

“Oh…” He thought it over. “What’s that have to do with me? You always say I’m important, but—“

“You are. Michael will become one with you. Your souls were merge. You are his sword—his greatest weapon against the darkness. The only one that will assure his success.”

Cas leaned forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped together. His eyes turned up to the looming painting. For a second, it felt like the only thing in the universe.

After a long time, Dean spoke. “I won’t be me anymore?”

How was Cas supposed to answer that?

“You’ll be who you were meant to be since the beginning,” he said.

_Today, I would describe this as bullshit._

_But he believed me. Every word._

He grew into a competent, obedient soldier. Sometimes questioning but never faltering. Like Cas, in a way.

By the time he was thirteen, he did become restless. Castiel saw him pacing the length of the Green Room, like a caged animal. He started to feel sorry for the human.

So he made a request to his superior.

_I want to take Dean to a mortal’s Heaven._

_Absolutely not._

_He’s becoming restless. Impatient. It could lead to rebelliousness. You don’t want that, do you?_

He knew he struck a chord. He didn’t even have to say the word “Lucifer.” It became synonymous with “rebel” long ago.

_Fine,_ the angel relented. _But only one._

Castiel’s favorite Heaven has long been the eternal Tuesday of an autistic man who drowned in the bathtub. A bright green garden dappled with red flowers, and a sky like the blue frosting on one of Dean’s sponge cakes. A solitary kite flapped in the breeze, its orange tail flicking.

Dean squinted in the sunlight. It glinted off his hair, making it look more golden than usual.

“Are we on Earth?”

“No,” Cas admitted. “It’s a memory of Earth. His.” He gestured toward the man flying the kite. He never spoke or even noticed Cas there. He didn’t notice Dean either when he waved.

But Dean wouldn’t stop smiling, which was satisfying.

When they returned to the Green Room for a lesson, his mood was better. He could focus. Stay still. Listen. He even laughed.

But later on, Dean turned distant. Almost sad.

Cas was teaching him proper Enochian on a thick scroll sprawled out on their table when he noticed the look on his face.

“Dean,” he prompted. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

But something was wrong. “Tell me.”

“I was thinking…why can’t we go to that other place and do this?”

Of course, there was only one place he could be referring to. The only other place he’d ever been.

“We can’t.”

Dean accepted it without question, just because Castiel said so. Oddly, that made him feel worse.

Eventually he decided it wouldn’t technically be disobedience if he took Dean back occasionally. After all, his superior said “Only one” not “Only once.”

So, Dean and Cas took their lessons outside more and more. He loved to lay on the long, wet grass and stare at the clouds during the lectures.

Castiel remembers him patting the ground and coaxing him to stretch out. At first, Cas rejected the idea, but after a while, he relented. Shrugging off his trench coat and black jacket, loosening the tie and laying down, he felt—relaxed. He stopped talking about the end of times long enough to hear the birds.

Glancing over at Dean, he recognized how different he was from the baby he took from the Winchester nursery. His ankles were crossed. He wore black dress pants and a white button-down. Plain and mature, despite his age. Exactly how the angels wanted him to look.

He raised an eyebrow at Cas, silently asking what he was looking at.

_I turned back to the sky._

“Cas?”

“Yes.”

“Are there more?”

He meant “Are there more Heavens?”

“Yes,” Cas said.

The excitement in his dark green eyes made Castiel…uncomfortable.

“No,” Cas mended.

“You said yes.”

“I meant no.”

But it wasn’t long before Cas relented on that as well—the worst mistake he made. Because Dean proved to be resourceful. Too resourceful for the likes of the garrison. It wasn’t long before he found out how to transcend Heavens on his own.

It took the angels slightly longer to find _him_ out.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he screamed.

Castiel could feel Zachariah side-eying him. Shaking the head of his balding vessel.

Jameson Kendall’s Heaven is a neon and chrome diner from 1950’s America. If Cas recalls correctly, he worked there for the majority of his adolescence and owned the restaurant later in life. He had no children—unorthodox during the days of the Baby Boom—and a relatively unhappy marriage that consisted of unrelieved sexual frustration due to his wife’s undiagnosed vaginismus.

It appeared that he was enjoying letting go of…said frustration…while bending Dean over the counter. Pants at their ankles. Dean gripping the unpolished surface, knuckles turning whiter with each thrust.

“Ahem?” Zachariah said.

No response. Cas shifted, sighed, before raising his hand, palm up, and blasting Jameson Kendall to the other side of the diner. He slumped unconscious against the jukebox, penis still erect and dripping.

“Christ…” he heard Dean say under his breath, spinning around and yanking up his pants. His shirt was halfway unbuttoned. He gave them a sloppy salute, trying to recover somehow. An Elvis Presley song lazed in the background.

“ _Somebody’s_ gotta be willing to give me an _explanation_ for this,” Zachariah said. Dean opened his mouth, but Zachariah zipped it shut instantly. “Not you. You.”

“I had no idea this was happening,” Castiel said. _And I didn’t. It was the truth._

In human years, Dean was twenty-one years old. Cas wondered how long he’d been fornicating. Ruining himself. He wondered what else he’d been doing and how they hadn’t seen it.

“Sweet, innocent little Castiel…” Zachariah said, mockingly, hands tight behind his back. “That’s like—well, it’s like if a dog pisses in the neighbor’s grass. And the neighbor goes up to the owner and says, ‘Look! Look what your dog did to my grass!’ And the owner says, ‘I didn’t tell him to. So it’s not my fault!’…See how that _just doesn’t work_? Because the _owner”_ —He punctuate this by flinging Cas to the tiled floor with a flick of his wrist—“should have kept his dog on a tighter leash.”

Cas let out a long breath. Zachariah’s invisible hold on relaxed enough that he could stand again. “All right. Yes. When he was sixteen, I started—showing him different Heavens. But I never authorized him to go alone.” Cas shot a glare in Dean’s direction.

“This is a big problem, Castiel. I mean _big._ You see—Michael’s vessel has to be pure. That’s the whole entire _reason_ we kept it up here in the first place! Now does _that_ look pure to you?”

Dean tried to straighten his shirt.

“No,” Cas admitted.

“No. It doesn’t. So _now_ what? Hmm?”

His thoughts were racing. Now what? He was just as angry as Zachariah, if not more. Dean took advantage of his trust. He destroyed the entire operation with his simple acts of sin.

“Tick-tock,” Zachariah said. He sounded louder than ever, and that’s saying something.

“Let him talk,” Castiel said.

“Why?”

Grasping the front of his suit jacket, Cas brought him closer till they were face to face. He may have been the superior, but Castiel was the better fighter. “Because I said so.”

He tried to keep Cas’s gaze and couldn’t. With a roll of his eyes and a motion of his hand, Zachariah released Dean.

Cas the other angel away as Dean gasped for air and coughed out the words, “Cas—I’m—“

“I don’t care. How long has this been going on?”

His brows knit together, eyes searching.

He never could tell time in Heaven.

“How many times have you done it?” Cas rephrased.

It looked like he was counting in his head, leaving both Castiel and Zachariah speechless.

“Okay, we get the point,” Zachariah snapped.

“It hasn’t been that long, I swear,” he said.

“Long enough! He needs purification. How do you propose we get him that?”

Purification. There weren’t many fool-proof methods of acquiring something so strong. Unless…

“God,” Castiel stated.

“God? Capital-G-God?”

Dean looked just as doubtful as Zachariah.

“Why not?” he said. “You’ve spoken to him, haven’t you?”

“Well, I—I mean…” Zachariah stammered.

“You haven’t…”

“I have! In—theory.”

“You haven’t. So who has?”

“Joshua! But you can’t seriously be considering going up to Dad and asking him to fix this hairless monkey abomination.”

“He created this ‘abomination.’ He chose him. Why wouldn’t he fix him?”

_So it was settled. We told no one, not one of the other angels, about our mission._

“Are you giving me the silent treatment?”

“Yes,” Castiel told him.

They were cutting through swarms of untamed jungle. Insects the size of Jimmy’s fist floated around them. The air was sticky and dense.

“C’mon, Cas, I said I was sorry. Let it die.”

“You don’t seem to understand the magnitude of this situation.”

He slashed through the wilting vines in their path with his angel blade and allowed Dean to pass.

“I get it. I’m not ‘pure’ anymore. Yada yada.”

Cas stopped and spun around to face him. “This isn’t ‘yada yada.’ It’s serious. If Michael doesn’t have a suitable vessel to inhabit, Satan will annihilate the world. Not only that, but you disobeyed my orders. Realistically, we should kill you and start over with someone worthy.”

With nothing left to say, he stalked off. Dean’s shoes pounded the dirt and rock behind him.

“But we’re gonna fix things,” he reminded me.

_I wasn’t so sure, but there was no need to release that information._

“Hey.” Dean touched his shoulder to stop him. “If God can purify me or whatever…why can’t he just take care of the Devil himself?”

_An excellent question. I didn’t even know if God could or would purify him. All I knew was, if I hadn’t come up with an answer for Zachariah, he probably would have snapped Dean’s neck and handed me to Naomi for rehabilitation._

“Because the prophecy needs to be fulfilled,” Cas said. It sounded good, at least, and it could have been true. “This is the way the story was written. This is the way it will come to pass.”

He pushed Dean aside to continue walking.

They moved along in silence until they reached their destination. The center of the garden. It looked different for everyone. Cas had no idea whose plane they were on, and it didn’t matter.

All they needed to find was the tree.

And they did.

Resting against it…was Joshua. What was left of him. In earth terms, he was the size of two great whales. His enormous wings were turned to bones and burned into the ground like a seal. Red, jagged words were sliced into the meat of his expansive stomach. Each letter was the size of Dean. They spelled

YAHWEH WALKS THE EARTH

“Cas…”

He was in shock. He’d never seen a dead thing before. Well. That isn’t true. All the humans he’d ever witnessed were “dead,” but this one was slaughtered. And it was an angel.

“Who did this…?” Cas said, more to himself than anyone else.

Dean’s hand was starting to shake. Castiel couldn’t waste any more time standing there. He had to take the vessel away, back to the Green room. Where he belonged.

_You already know we didn’t stay there for long._

Just long enough to get their bearings.

To come up with a new plan.

To study the geography of Dean’s planet.

The message cut into Joshua’s body might have been a clue. Cas could tell it was made by Joshua’s own angel blade. He could have been telling them something before he died. After all, Cas informed him through the angelic wavelengths that he was coming to see him about their Father. Either way, it was the only lead they had.

To find God, they would have to go to Earth.

 

 


End file.
